"Mmm," he murmurs, half in appreciation of Watson's attentions, and half in appreciation of imagining Watson in his uniform. He cranes his neck to give Watson more room, and his fingers slide up Watson's spine, counting vertebrae.

"I am biased toward men in uniform in general," he starts, feeling coy, "and combined with my heavy bias toward the handsomeness of your person... Yes, my dear. I think very highly of your uniform. Almost as highly as I think of taking your uniform off."

He turns his head and traces his tongue along the shell of Watson's ear, mouthing at his earlobe. His fingers, having ascertained that Watson's spine is intact, start playing one of Watson's favorite pieces against his ribs.